I'm Not Just Mom

Kids Ink Shadow Zip Up Boys Jacket, $56

All hail the alterna-tot. Babywit has everything you need to keep your baby bangin’, your toddler tight and your kid cool. From David Bowie bibs to Nina Simone tees, from the darling (artsy Frida Kahlo peasant dresses) to the deranged (creepy zombie onesies), this gear will set your little one apart from cutesy clad playmates, and have run-of-the-mill moms running in the other direction. In other words, a win-win.

Dad, you're gonna need a drink

A new study reveals that girls want to have “the talk” with dear old Dad. Can you imagine? Here’s how it would’ve gone at my house:

Moi: Dad, where do babies come from?

Dad: If sex doesn’t kill you a baby will. So don’t do it.

But apparently many young women between the ages of 19-21 wish their fathers would’ve shed some light, if not on sexual specifics, at least on the male perspective.

This is something my father did for me even without my asking. From the time I was old enough to wear a training bra and blow my allowance on a Duran Duran poster and a tube of Bonnie Bell lipgloss (which was soon wasted on said poster), my Dad explained to me in no uncertain terms that boys/guys/men “only want one thing, and good girls don’t offer it. End of discussion.”

And it’s true. When Husband gets some loving, I get anything I want. (P.S. It doesn’t make you a prostitute bad girl if you’re married, right?)

Do you wish your father had told you about birds, bees & boys, or would you (both) have died on the spot?

Something tells me I’ll be consulting this book as soon as my bambinos are old enough to protest to baths, hair brushing, naps, anything really. It includes sing-along songs, positive reinforcement and lots of (non-damaging) mind tricks to get dirty little jobs done. Of course, since my mother jinxed me with the “I hope you have a daughter who is juuust liiike yooou” curse, I might get more than I bargained for in the form of a tiny redhaired firecracker who stands up, talks back and gives more lip than Steven Tyler. (Fingers crossed.) God knows even Holy book couldn’t have helped when I was a wee one.

I’ve lived my life since adolescence in heels. My personal motto: The higher the heel, the closer to God. But now that I have twins in tow, I fear flats are (silently, clicklessly) sneaking up behind me. I want to give in, really I do, but I just can’t give a few meddling moms the satisfaction. Their disapproving stares are egging me on and I’m clever enough to recognize the judgment peering from beyond those thin veils of admiration. When they say, “I don’t know how you do it” what they mean is, “You shouldn’t do it.”

Pre-pregnancy, I spent every waking moment in heels. I could run in them, jump in them and, by golly, even climb a mountain in them. They added height, elongated my legs and allowed my ass to defy gravity. To me, heels are heavenly and flats can go to hell.

While I was knocked up I would explain to naysayers that I walked more easily in heels (true), that my back hurt when I wore flats (also true), and that I never tripped while I was in heels (not entirely true). By my 8th month I moved on to wedges which gave me height with balance. At least I thought so until I fell on the sidewalk and cracked my head open. One ambulance ride, one panicked husband, seven stitches, 1,347 tears and 4 hours of fetal monitoring later, I conceded and bought a pair of leopard print flats. I even wore them a time or two, that is when I got the nerve to walk. It wasn’t shoes I distrusted, it was gravity.

And then came the “I told you so” comments ad nauseum. Had the “hell on heels” remarks been made in the form of advice instead of admonishment, maybe I would’ve been more apt to listen. I am, after all, nothing if not an eternal brat. Still, shouldn’t we be lifting each other up (like a lovely pair of Brian Atwoods) rather than stomping each other into the ground? Am I a bad mother because I refuse to wear deflated footwear? Really? I mean, really? To all of you other mothers, I’m sure this is the first of many mistakes I’ll make, so settle in, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the show.

So here I sit, a new mom, wedged uncomfortably between the Devil and the deep blue sea. I gave in and added a pair of retro Converse low tops to my collection but they haven’t seen much action. The first time I wore them Husband said I looked dorky and minutes later I stepped in dog poo. (Coincidence? I think not.) Maybe it’s just for spite, but I’m off to the park with my two wee beasties…and two of the highest heels I can find.

Momzillas, please mind your own beeswax and stop the bullying. Mom-on-mom crime is never the answer.